Fire Sea (44 page)

“Have you come up with something? Do you know where these runes are taking us?”

“I … I believe so.” Alfred's voice lowered, his gaze shifted to Jera. “But do you realize—she can communicate with the dead!”

“Yes, I realize it! And so will Kleitus, if he gets hold of her.” Haplo rubbed his arms, his skin prickled and burned. “I don't like this. Someone's coming. Someone's following us. And whoever or whatever it is, I'm in no condition to fight. It's up to you to save us, Sartan.”

“And now I understand,” the lazar was saying softly, speaking either to the prince or to the other half of its tortured being. “I hear your words of bitter sorrow. I share your regret, your despair, your frustration!”

The lazar wrung its hands, its voice rising. “You want so desperately to make them listen, and they can't hear! The pain is worse than this arrow in my heart!” Grasping the arrow's shaft, the lazar jerked it free, hurled it to the floor. “That pain ended swiftly. This pain will last forever! Never ending! Oh, my husband, you should have let me die!”

“… should have let me die…” came the mournful echo that faded into the silence of the tunnel.

“I know how she feels,” Haplo said grimly. “Pay attention to
me,
Sartan! There'll be enough time later for your tears … if we're lucky. The runes, damn it!”

Alfred wrenched his gaze from Jera. “Yes, the runes.” He swallowed. “The sigla are leading us in a definite direction, keeping in one path. If you've noticed, we've passed by
several other tunnels, branching off from this one, and they haven't taken us down those. When I spoke the runes, it was in my mind that I wanted out and so I think that the runes are leading me where I asked to go. But—” Alfred hesitated, appeared uncomfortable. “But?”

“But that exit might very well be the front entrance to the palace,” Alfred concluded miserably.

Haplo sighed, fought back a strong desire to curl up in a ball and be sick. “We've got no choice except to keep going.” The burning of the runes on his skin was strong. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, whistled to the dog.

“Haplo.” Alfred stood up, laid a tentative hand on the Patryn's arm. “What did you mean, you know how she feels? Do you mean I should have let you die?”

Haplo jerked away from the man's touch. “If it's thanks you want for saving my life, Sartan, you won't get them. By bringing me back, you may have imperiled my people, your people, and all those fool mensch out there you seem to care so much about! Yes, you should have let me die, Sartan! You should have let me die, then you should have done what I asked and destroyed my body!”

Alfred stared, confused, frightened. “Imperiled … I don't understand.”

Haplo lifted a tattooed arm, thrust it into Alfred's face, pointed at the runes on his skin. “Why do you think Kleitus used poison, instead of a spear or an arrow to murder me. Why use poison? Instead of a weapon that
would damage the skin?

Alfred went livid. “Blessed Sartan!”

Haplo laughed, briefly. “Yeah! Blessed Sartan! You're a blessed bunch, all right! Now go on. Get us out of here.”

Alfred started down the hallway. The sigla on the walls flamed into soft blue light at his approach. The prince's cadaver waited for the lazar, held out its hand with regal dignity, despite the gaping hole in its chest.

The lazar looked from the dead prince to her husband.

Jonathan's head was bowed, his hands clutched at his long hair, tearing it in his bitter regret.

The lazar regarded him without pity, its face smooth, cold, frozen in its death mask. The phantasm, trapped within, gave the lazar its life, a terrible life that stared out of the dead eyes with sudden, dreadful menace.

“It is the living who have done this to us,” she hissed.

“… done this to us …” whispered the echo.

The duke lifted a ravaged face, his eyes widened. The lazar took a step toward him. Cringing, he shrank away from what had once been his wife.

The lazar regarded him in silence. The two halves of her being shifted, separated, the spirit attempting futilely to free itself from the body's prison. Turning, without a word, the lazar joined the dead prince, its feet trampling heedlessly over the blood stained arrow it had hurled to the floor.

Wild-eyed, Jonathan plucked an object from beneath his robes. Steel flashed in the already fading light of the runes.

“Dog!” Haplo shouted. “Stop him!”

The dog leapt, teeth slashing. Jonathan cried out in pain and astonishment. The knife he held clattered to the tunnel floor. He made a grab for it, but the dog was swifter. Standing over it, the animal bared its teeth, growling. Jonathan fell back, nursing a bleeding wrist.

Haplo put his hand on the duke's arm, steered him down the tunnel after Alfred. A whistle brought the dog trotting along behind.

“Why did you stop me!” Jonathan asked in a dull voice. His feet dragged. He walked blindly. “I want to die!”

Haplo grunted. “All I need is another corpse! Get moving!”

CHAPTER
35
THE CATACOMBS,
ABARRACH

T
HE CATACOMB TUNNEL CONTINUED TO DESCEND AT A
moderate slope, the runes lighting a smooth path that appeared to be delving straight into the depths of the world. Haplo had doubts about anything that Alfred undertook, but the Patryn was forced to concede that the tunnel, although ancient, was dry, wide, and had been kept in good repair. He hoped he was right in deducing, therefore, that it had been designed to accommodate a considerable amount of traffic.

Why? he reasoned, if not to take a large number of people to a specific place. And wouldn't that place more than likely be out?

It made sense. Still, he reminded himself gloomily, there was no telling with the Sartan.

But, wherever the path was leading them, they were forced to follow. There was no turning back. Haplo paused often to listen, and now he was certain he heard footsteps, the clank of armor, the rattle of sword and spear. He glanced over at his charges. The dead were in better condition than the living. The lazar and the prince's cadaver walked down the tunnel with calm, purposeful steps. Behind them, Jonathan stumbled aimlessly, paying little attention to his surroundings, his gaze fixed with a puzzled horror on the tortured figure of his beloved wife.

Haplo wasn't moving all that well himself. The poison was still in his system. Only a healing sleep would cure him
completely. The runes on his flesh glowed in a sickly manner. His magic fought to place one foot in front of the other. The runes on his skin might flicker and die out completely if the sigla had to fight anything more challenging. Silent, watchful, the dog padded along, keeping at the duke's heels.

The Patryn edged his way through the narrow tunnel, past the living and the dead, to catch up with Alfred. The Sartan sang the runes softly beneath his breath, watched the sigla flame to life and light their path.

“We're being followed,” Haplo announced in a low voice.

The Sartan was concentrating on the runes, had no idea Haplo was near. Alfred jumped, tripped, and nearly fell. He saved himself by clinging to the smooth, dry wall and glanced nervously behind him.

Haplo shook his head. “I don't think they're close, although I can't be certain. These damn tunnels distort the sound. They can't be sure which way we went. My guess is that they're having to stop and investigate every intersection, send patrols down every branching path to make certain they don't lose us.” He gestured at the glowing blue marks on the wall. “These sigla wouldn't be likely to light up again, show them the way, would they?”

“They might,” Alfred paused, considering. He looked unhappy. “If the dynast knew the proper spells …”

Haplo stopped walking, began swearing fluently. “That damn arrow!”

“What arrow?” Alfred cringed back against the wall, expecting barbed shafts to come flying past him.

“The arrow Her Grace yanked out of her body!” Haplo pointed in the direction they'd just come. “Once they find that, they'll know they're on the right track!”

He took a step in that direction, hardly knowing what he was doing.

“You can't be thinking of returning!” Alfred cried, panicked. “You'd never find the way back!”

Is that what I'm thinking? Haplo wondered to himself silently, nerves tingling with the idea. I use retrieving the arrow as an excuse, double back on our own trail. The soldiers will keep going forward. All I'd have to do is hide
until they're gone, then be on my merry way and leave these Sartan to their well-deserved fate.

It was tempting, very tempting. But that left the problem of returning to his ship, a ship that was now moored in hostile enemy territory.

Haplo resumed walking beside Alfred.

“I'd find a way back,” he said bitterly. “What you mean is that
you'd
never find the way back—the way back through Death's Gate. That was the reason you saved my life, wasn't it, Sartan?”

“Of course,” returned Alfred softly, sadly. “Why else?” “Yeah. Why else?”

Alfred was apparently deeply absorbed in his chanting. Haplo couldn't hear the words, but he saw the Sartan's lips move, the runes continue to light. The slope in the floor had decreased markedly. It ran level, which might indicate they were getting somewhere. The Patryn didn't know if this was good or bad.

“It wouldn't be on account of the prophecy, would it?” he asked abruptly, keeping his gaze fixed intently on Alfred.

The Sartan's entire body jerked as if dancing on a puppeteer's string—head, hands flew up, eyes opened wide. “No!” he protested. “No, I assure you! I don't know anything about this … this prophecy.”

Haplo studied the man. Alfred was not above lying, if driven to it, but he was a terrible liar, offering up his prevarications with a wistful, pleading expression, as if begging you to believe him. He was looking at Haplo now and his look was frightened, miserable….

“I don't believe you!”

“Yes, you do,” answered Alfred meekly.

Haplo fumed, angry, disappointed. “Then you're an idiot! You should have asked them. After all, the prophecy was mentioned in connection with you.”

“The one reason that I never want to know of it!”

“That
makes a hell of a lot of sense!”

“A prophecy implies that we are destined to do something. It dictates to us, we have no choice in the matter. It robs us of our freedom of will. Too often, prophecies end up
being self-fulfilling. Once the thought is in our minds, we act, either consciously or unconsciously, to bring it to pass. That can be the only explanation … unless you believe in a higher power.”

“Higher power!” Haplo scoffed. “Where? The mensch? I don't plan to believe in this ‘prophecy.’ These Sartan believe in it, and that's what interests me. As you say”—Haplo winked—”that prophecy could be ‘self-fulfilling.’ “

“You don't know what it is either, do you?” Alfred guessed.

“No, but I intend to find out. Don't worry, though. I don't plan to tell you. Say, Your Grace—” He turned toward Jonathan.

“Haplo!” Alfred sucked in his breath, caught hold of the Patryn's arm.